


Whiskey and Honeysuckle

by PopsicleToes33



Category: Miss Scarlet and the Duke (TV 2020)
Genre: Crime Drama, F/M, Mystery, Victorian Crime Drama, ripper street - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29708034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PopsicleToes33/pseuds/PopsicleToes33
Summary: It's been several weeks since the discovery that her father had been murdered, but Eliza Scarlet is not ready to let go. She senses something bigger is afoot, and even though her childhood friend Detective Inspector William Wellington with Scotland Yard is on the case, she doesn't believe he's always being forthright. Armed with the education her father bestowed upon her as a former detective himself, she sets out in the streets of London at her own peril to find out the truth behind her father's murder. In a scheme that will take her to the bowels of London's seediest neighborhoods and into the lofty society she eschews, she sets her own course to unravel the mystery of her father's murder. The question is, will William, for whom she's developing more-than-friendly feelings, come along for the ride?
Relationships: Eliza Scarlet and William Wellington
Comments: 24
Kudos: 92





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N These delightful, witty, bickering characters are not mine. They’re from the brilliant mind of Rachel New, who gifted us with this oh-so-lovely universe we get to enjoy. I’ve tried where I can to be accurate to the Victorian experience, but as a Yank in Flyover Country, U.S.A., I lack the innate cultural understanding of much of English society.
> 
> This is my first-ever fic that I’ve published, although I had a few starter fics (never published), and plot bunnies that remained unresolved in past fandoms, as well as bits and bobs of two original novels, and a few completed original screenplays. I’ve also been a beta reader for other fic writers, and would love to have one for this if the right person applies.
> 
> As for THIS story, it does start out a bit dark (trigger warning for vague discussion of sexual assault), but I promise we’ll get to the pithy banter and flirty repartee soon. And since this is a prologue, and mostly filled with Wiliam’s thoughts, it’s a bit expository, so folks can get a sense of the story and characters. I promise I won’t let these two hang out in angstville for too long, and while I do have an endgame (and a few saucy epilogues) in sight, I have no idea what it’ll take to get them there. I hope I do them justice. Hang on!
> 
> P.S. Right now, I *hope* to update every 2-3 weeks, but my job tends to pull at me quite a bit this time of year, so I don’t want to set up expectations I cannot always meet, but I’ll do my best.

“Damn! That woman!”

William slugged back another gulp of whiskey, then pressed the glass to his forehead, as if the liquid therein held some magic that could slay the raging headache he’d acquired since carrying Eliza home just over an hour past. The clock chimed three as he stood leaning against the mantle in Eliza’s parlour and stared into the fire, relishing the burn of the alcohol as it washed down his throat. It was sweeter than the robust Scottish brands he preferred, but it would suffice.

That Eliza was alive was a miracle. When William found her, unconscious and heaped in some filth-ridden alley behind one of Westminster’s more disreputable establishments, he almost mistook her for one of the local tavern girls. Her blonde curls were soaked with blood that ran down her forehead, and bruising had started to bloom around her neck. The frock she wore was not her favored blue suit, but some wastrel’s rags she’d likely purloined from a street miss, or one of the hoydens that ran with Moses’s gang of miscreants. The bodice was torn from some kind of obvious struggle, and her skirts had been hiked up as if… God, he did  _ not _ want to let his thoughts venture there. He’d seen enough over his career with Scotland Yard that his mind would conjure the worst possible scenes, especially those of women who’d found themselves victims of heinous crimes upon their person.

The truth remained that Eliza continued to put her life in danger each time she went out on a case. Her ambition as a female private detective had been the subject of many a row between them. Not only was it inappropriate, William believed, for a woman of her stature to engage in such work, but it was altogether too perilous for any woman to roam the London streets alone and at night. But row or no, the damn woman refused to hear him out, and even intervened in his very own cases. He’d even gone so far as to lock her up in a cell at Scotland Yard on a few occasions in an effort to keep her safe, but it was all in vain. She was of her own mind, and would not listen to reason, no matter how hard he tried. And damn, he did try!

He wanted to protect her, needed to protect her for Henry’s sake (and perhaps for more selfish reasons), but stubborn and sure as the sun rises in summer, she refused to heed a single word he had to say on the matter and would flaunt her carelessness right in front of him.

William let out a deep breath and tried to push the memories from earlier that evening out of his mind. He could still feel her diminutive form, weakened and limp, as he held her in the coach on the ride home. The wet from urine, blood and vomit, no doubt the bodily detritus from the establishment’s clientele, had soaked into her clothes, and she’d shudder, from pain or cold he could not know, and let out soft groans as the vehicle bounced over the pits and cobbles of the rain-soaked east London streets. But beneath that putrid stench bloomed the sweet notes of honeysuckle that were distinctively hers. It was the same floral scent he’d detect whenever she was near; a soft bouquet that recalled brisk autumn days tugging on long blonde curls, and of late aroused his more carnal musings, where a curtain of those curls lay draped upon his chest.

He tugged at his collar then tossed off a last swig of whiskey before crossing to the side table to pour another dram. He’d been wearing the stiffly-starched appurtenance for nearly eighteen hours, and the fabric was beginning to scratch and choke.

_Good Lord, but that doctor needs to finish_ , William thought, as he pulled out his pocket watch for what seemed like the hundredth time since bringing Eliza home.

That William should be back at Scotland Yard looking for the perpetrator with Chief Inspector Hudson and the junior detectives was of no consequence. He had made his choice, one that might send him back down in the ranks, but he couldn’t worry about such matters now. He’d face that later, when he was sure to be called into Superintendent’s Alistair Higgins’ office for a stern set-down of his wayward behavior. Higgins, or “Old Higgs” as he was called, was the heir apparent after Superintendent Frederick Stirling’s murder at the hands of Detective Jenkins, the same detective responsible for Henry Scarlet’s death. Another of Stirling’s military lackeys, Higgins had all the substance of a man born of the higher ranks of society but chose to use it poorly; who parlayed his family’s wealth into a lofty station in the military, and spent many a working hour over brandy at the Carlton Club, where he’d meet with members of Parliament and various Tory officials on what he’d claim was “Yard business.”

Maybe Stirling had been right. Maybe William  _ had _ taken a shine to Eliza, but shine or no, no matter how often she invaded his thoughts, and no matter what feelings began to stir in him -- not that he could put a name to them -- he couldn’t afford to get involved. He had his own career to protect, and could not suffer the strains of her constant interference, even when she was right (and she often was).

Restless and agitated, William began pacing the floor before giving up and collapsing back onto the tufted velvet divan where he’d spent many an evening in Henry and Eliza’s company. He allowed his eyes to close and his thoughts to drift to his former mentor, and what Henry would think of this current situation. No doubt he’d express disappointment in William for letting things get this out of sorts.

Lord, but he missed Henry. His gentle demeanor and way of understanding the world helped everything make sense, and he always knew how to thread the needle between challenge and encouragement. Within a single breath, Henry could give William the most astringent set-downs while also helping him determine exactly what line to follow to solve a case. And with Eliza, never had a father been so wrong and so exactly right in raising a young woman. With her sharp mind, discerning eye and innate ability to consider a case from multiple angles, she possessed all the qualities necessary to make a brilliant detective, save for one; she was female.

Rubbing his hand over his face, William allowed the exhaustion to wash over him. He was restless and confused, his nerves not willing to give him the relief he so desperately needed until he could see Eliza again with his own eyes. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d warned her away from these kinds of cases, and dabbling in men’s affairs, yet she insisted on ingratiating herself with the most villainous scum London had to offer. They’d no doubt have words on the subject, and as with all the times past, he’d find himself forgiving her as soon as she’d lower that defiant chin and soften just enough to pull him into her spell.  _ NO!  _ Not this time, he vowed. Detective work was an occupation to be held by men, and only men. Tonight proved that, and as soon as she was able to talk, he’d convince her of that very thing, forgiveness or no. It was time she find other work more suitable to her sex.

Despite Eliza’s finer qualities, William knew he couldn’t always be there to protect her, and  _ damn! _ he needed to keep her safe; not only to fulfill the promise he’d made to Henry - one that seemed more of a blood vow each and every day - but he was starting to recognize that  _ he _ needed that tart mouth and sassy smile more than he wanted to acknowledge, and that was dangerous territory indeed.

“Ahem,” came a voice from outside the parlour, startling William from his thoughts. 

“Ah. Doctor.” William roused then stood and put down his drink before picking up a bottle of Bushmills as way of an offering. “What news?” 

The doctor, a hefty man in his mid-to-late fifties, filled the narrow doorway space. He cast a noble presence with his bespoke suit, gold brocade waistcoat and curled moustache. He reminded William of the fat-wallet toadies that frequented the West End clubs to escape their household ennui over gin slings while hashing out the day’s political offerings.

He waved a no before speaking. “Thank you. Not much of a whiskey man myself. But I do see you have a fine bit of Port.”

“Of course,” William unstopped the decanter, then filled a glass with the ruby-colored liquid. 

“And?” he asked, trying to hide his impatience. He handed the glass to the doctor, who nodded in thanks before tasting its contents.

“I don’t know how much I should reveal except to family,” the doctor intoned. “You are not married, I take it?”

“Ah, no,” William affirmed. “A family friend.”

The paucity of his admission left him uncertain of how to further the situation. He already feared the worst, and if the doctor only wanted to speak with close family, then the news must be as he imagined.

"I see,” the doctor replied, with a hint of suspicion in his voice.

“Her father is lately passed, and there is no other family. Only Ivy, the housekeeper, and she’s out visiting her own mother.”

“That does present a conundrum,” the doctor started before taking another appreciative sip of the sweet wine.

William balked before adding, “And me, I suppose.”

“Oh?” The doctor seemed uncertain of this revelation, leaving the comment hanging as a means of inquiring further.

“We grew up together,” William began, “Her father took me under his tutelage when I was a lad. Now that he is gone, I suppose I am family, of a sort.”

William reeled inside as the gravitas of the statement suddenly conferred new understanding. They were friendly, yes, and even bantered like siblings. But was he ready to consider himself Eliza’s family? He supposed with no other male figures around, except for Rupert, Eliza’s business investor, that he was more like family than anyone else. The only family, really, outside of Ivy. The epiphany gave him pause, but he couldn’t afford to ruminate more on the idea, so forced it to pass without further consideration. And still in need of information, he let out a huff, then turned to the doctor with more bravado. 

“Besides, what you say may be important to our investigation at Scotland Yard,” he offered, hoping the pull in rank might help the doctor open up, “especially if it can help us find whoever did this to her and lock them off the streets.”

“Scotland Yard? I see,” repaired the doctor with sudden interest. “Oh ho! So you must know Superintendent Higgins. We go back many years, Old Higgs and I,” he noted appreciatively. “A right chap he is. Our eldest sons were mates at St. John’s public school.” 

William grew more heated as the conversation wore on. The only thing that mattered was the condition of the woman upstairs, not the banal yarns shared in officers’ clubs. And yet here he was faced with the same sort of nepotistic bumblerump* he dealt with back at work.

“Yes, sir. I’ve known the Superintendent for a few years now. He joined the Yard not long after I started as a young copper.” At that moment, William realized in the early frenzy of escorting the doctor inside, he’d failed to introduce himself. “I am Detective Inspector Wellington,” William started... 

“Ah! Yes, I’ve read about you of late.” the doctor interrupted. “Quite the case you made with that forgery nonsense. Most impressive, I might add. One of your own officers, was it? How ever did you discover it? That must mean the lady upstairs is none other than the famous Miss Scarlet, am I right? Ooh hoo! Yes, sirree. That was quite a tale! The gents at the club were all in a state about it. Old Higgs was quite proud of his work on that.”

The doctor seemed near gleeful at this new revelation, and William knew the subject of this late-night call would no doubt make the rounds among the doctor’s social circle. 

“Sir,” William started.

“Of course, having a woman involved,” the doctor carried on. “Most peculiar, indeed. Why, some studies show that intellect in women can lead to a decrease in fertility.” He started babbling further when William interrupted this time, his voice grumbling with more anger than irritation.

“With respect....” 

“Well then, if you insist” the doctor began anew after swallowing another sip of the port. “A fine pour, this!”

“Sir!” Bereft of patience, William raised his voice this time, his Scottish growl in near full force with the utterance.

“Of course. Apologies,” and this time the doctor offered a small bow by means of acquiescence. 

“She has a rather large contusion of the head which may cause muddled thoughts and several days of headache. Hit with a club, I’d imagine, or a plank of some kind. I cleaned and dressed the wound, but she’ll have a swelling for some time forward. She wasn’t quite sure where she was at first, but finally came around. She became quite chatty, muttering on about frogs, dogs, and a person named Willifred.”

William blanched, then chuckled inwardly while imagining Eliza’s confusion as she called out the nickname she gave him when they were younger. She’d use it as retribution for his teasing taunts of “Dizzy Lizzy,” due to her constant whirring from one idea to the next.

“Go on,” he cleared his throat.

The doctor continued. “She also suffers from what I believe to be cracked ribs, or at least badly bruised, I’m afraid. Possibly from a kick to the side, but it’s hard to tell. Her lungs remain in tact.”

William winced at the idea of her being beaten and kicked on the foul ground. He knew from his own pugilistic dabblings just how painful a bruised rib could be.

“I’ve given a draught of laudanum,” the doctor continued, “but she’ll need to be looked after, and kept in a darkened, quiet room for a good week. I gave instructions to the young lady who’s tending to her.”

William had almost forgotten about the maid, Anna, he’d called over from the neighbor’s house. Not wanting to make too much of a fuss, he’d asked the coach driver to appeal next door to see if anyone was about to offer assistance in getting Eliza settled in bed before the doctor arrived.

“Anything else?” William queried, this time with a pointed look at the doctor. “No indication of assault of a more... personal nature?”

He shuddered at the question, not wanting to know the answer but also realizing he needed to find out lest anyone else tell Eliza before she figured things out on her own. He especially needed to be prepared to let Ivy know if anything had happened when she returned from visiting her mother’s the next morning.

“Ah,” the doctor hesitated a moment before offering “Not that I could surmise. There is some bruising around her neck, and on her legs, perchance from where she fell, but all else seemed…” He trailed off, not certain how to continue. 

William forced his hands into his pockets and looked at his shoes, hoping to hold in any reaction to the doctor’s next words. He didn’t want to pry into such personal matters, but knew everything in Eliza’s life would change if she had been violated in any intimate way. 

"All else seems perfectly... untouched," the doctor added, recognizing the delicacy of that particular detail. "There’s no indication of any other harm.” He quickly finished his drink, hoping to stave off the awkward tension between himself and the inspector.

To say relief washed over William was an understatement. He couldn’t put to words, or even thought, of the profound nature of this news. To know that the worst had not befallen her was a balm he didn’t realize he needed. Yet now reassured that Eliza had not been harmed in any intimate way, it boiled his blood anew to contemplate how much she risked by endangering herself this way.

“That’s good news, then,” William conceded, not recognizing how the admission might sound to others.

The doctor gave him a pointed look before agreeing. “Yes. It is, indeed.”

The two started at one another in silence, not having any more to say on the matter. Hands still in his pockets, William leaned back on his heels, and pulled out his pocket watch, hoping the gesture would spur the good doctor to finally leave the premises.

“Well, thank you again, doctor. We certainly appreciate you coming at such a late hour.”

“Ah, yes,” the doctor noted with acquiescence. “Always happy to help one of London’s finest.” He set the empty glass down on the side table next to the divan, then picked up his bag before offering a final goodbye. “I shall call back in a few days to see how our patient is doing. Please give her my regards, and don’t hesitate to send word if something should arise.”

“Can I see you out?” William asked, secretly hoping he needn’t spend one moment more with the insouciant blab.

“Thank you, but I am sure you are in need of rest, like our patient.” The doctor’s voice gave off an air of bemusement, as if he were sharing in a secret or unnamed folly of sorts. “I can see to things from here. Goodnight.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

With the doctor finally gone, William drained the last of the whiskey from his glass. The relief he felt in knowing that the worst of his imaginings hadn’t come to pass was almost more than he could bear, and he thanked the god above for rendering Eliza safe from that burden. 

He crossed back to the fireplace, and stood up the grate to make sure any wayward ashes didn’t blow back into the parlour, then snuffed out the candles about the room, save for one, which he carried with him as he made his way upstairs.


	2. Chapter 1 A New Clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the weeks since helping discover the plot behind her father's murder at the hands of Detective Frank Jennings, Eliza Scarlet's fledgling detective business has been running non-stop. Between new business cases, reporter interviews and catching up on correspondence, she's barely had a moment to rest. But what of her friendship with Detective William Wellington? It's been five weeks since they last saw each other, and the last time she did see him, it was after a very public set-down by his new boss. Yet, she's not heard a single word from him since, nor any indication as to why he'd abandoned her so. And when a mysterious and threatening letter turns up at her office, can she still count on him for aid?
> 
> Read on and find out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and Howdy!
> 
> Thank you all for your patience. I cranked out the first half of this quite easily, then things came crashing to a grinding halt in my real life goings-on. But boy, does Eliza get chatty when she wants to, and our grumpy William. Or, is he just perpetually misunderstood? 
> 
> I do not own these delightful characters. Or the universe in which they dwell. Nor am I making any kind of compensation from these works, professional or otherwise. All the credit (and the compensation) belongs to the brilliant Rachel New, and to our charming director Mr. Declan O'Dwyer and the wonderful cast who brought these characters to life. 
> 
> I do hope to do them justice as I set them on adventures of my own imagining.
> 
> I proofread this in the wee hours of or first night Daylight Saving Time, and upon my smartphone. Hopefully, I didn’t miss anything. But enough rambling from me. Let’s hear from our favorite Victorian crime solvers, and I’ll see you on the other side.

Eliza sat at her desk in her second-story office along 43 Herrick Court, sorting through the case inquiries that had arrived over the past several days. Since helping solve her father’s murder, part of a £70,000 forgery plot at the hands of Detective Frank Jennings, her working hours were filled with new investigations, some more fruitful than others, and some so odd (the case of the modiste’s assistant who nicked unwashed ladies’ stockings to sell to a local vicar), they provided just the right gossip-inducing brine to keep the tabloids well and salted, and more cases coming in. In fact, since closing on the Scotland Yard case some five weeks prior, she’d had nary a moment to do anything but work, and when time allowed, sort through the frequent loads of mail from curiosity seekers and the occasional admirer.

The publicity surrounding the forgery, and Eliza’s involvement in uncovering it, resulted in a brisk uptick in cases for her burgeoning detective business. The _Illustrated Police New_ s published a multi-week serial, complete with hand drawings, investigation details (not all of them quite within the realm of fact), and interviews with both Eliza and Detective Inspector William Wellington, a childhood friend and her father’s former colleague, who was with her when she uncovered the forgers’ secret hideaway. So substantial was their finding that William was granted a compensatory reward from the government, and enjoyed write-ups in the _London Daily News, Pall Mall Gazette, Globe_ and _Evening Standard._ That it was a Scotland Yard detective behind such a scheme, resulting in not only the murder of Eliza’s father, a former detective himself, but Police Superintendent Frederick Aloyicious Stirling, allowed for great intrigue among the hoi polloi, and salacious gossip fodder within London’s loftiest parlours and tea rooms, where the reigning birds of the beau monde proved eager to learn about this “lady detective” who eschewed the confines of genteel society to pursue a vocation traditionally reserved for men.

But beyond the adulation arose a dark spectre. Eliza was summarily barred from entering metropolitan police headquarters at Scotland Yard, even to make a social call. This came about in most dramatic fashion when not one week after the forgery case was closed, Eliza went to call on William (for completely social, non-business-related reasons, naturally), when she was met with a most unpleasant surprise.

Upon entering the headquarters building, she was greeted by none other than newly-appointed Police Superintendent Alistair Higgins himself. There he stood in his polished boots and Savile Row suit, arms across his chest, his sag-jowled, ruddy-cheeked visage expressing nothing but the acutest disdain for her person. She recognized the look, one of abject loathing and condescension, and as was her usual wont when faced with incivility, attempted to rebuff the scowling lout by lifting her chin and offering a polite “Good day, Superintendent.” No sooner had the words left her mouth than he charged at Eliza, grabbing her by the elbow, and _en magna voce_ , and within full view of everyone near the vicinity of 4 Whitehall Place, forcibly escorted her back down the front steps, all the while excorciating her existence as “unnatural and against the very construct of polite society.” His beratement went on for no fewer than four minutes, and in such time, he rained down a deluge of epithets (not to mention copious amounts of spittle), claiming she was an “immoral upstart,” a “reprobate,” and a “prying little tart so desperate for relevancy that she has made mockery of the cardinal industry of men, which is to keep the profligate members of society in check.” He then added that she was a “pox on the long-standing traditional English values of male supremacy” and that her ambitions “would be of more fruitful employ if she elected to undertake the apposite avocation of soliciting the services of her wagging tongue at a local brothel.”

To say Eliza was shocked would be an understatement. She knew the new Superintendent held her in no great esteem. After all, he’d try to downplay her involvement in the forgery case, and had even appealed to the editors of no fewer than three publications to ensure her likeness never appeared therein. But to be met with such a public reproof was a most distressing turn, and one she didn’t summarily understand.

And while the Superintendent's tirade provisioned more curiosity in the eyes of the public, it was William’s reaction that pricked at Eliza’s feelings in ways she was still coming to comprehend. For the entirety of the incident, William stood back in plain view from where she was being accosted, and instead of defending her against Higgins’ admonishments, once the chastisement had reached its terminus, cast a pointed glare Eliza’s way, then pulled out his pocket watch to glance at the time, and returned inside the building without so much as a nod in her direction.

This silent rebuke stung more than any verbal upbraiding Eliza had received, and when she allowed herself to reflect upon it, she had to admit that it shook her in ways she’d not experienced since learning of her father’s death. She believed she and William had come to some sort of understanding after he’d taken her to dinner not but a few days prior to the set-down. Over a shared meal of minted mutton and a soft claret, they afforded one another the liberty of putting aside their usual bickering in favor of more genial conversation about William’s days as a young investigator, her partnership with Rupert Parker, and their mutual admiration for Henry.

That Eliza had hardly any time to mourn her father’s passing weighed heavily on her heart. However, her need to support her own household supplanted any real opportunity to grieve. And now that William had turned on her, without so much as a warning or explanation, it only compounded her feelings of bereavement, and she felt the cut profoundly.

She’d believed the _rapprochement_ between William and herself was the start of something deeper, although what, she did not know. She couldn’t imagine carrying a _tendre_ for him, as she didn’t believe she’d ever fit the qualities she understood him to desire in a woman, but she did care deeply, and trusted him like family, which was enough. Still, his silence in the face of her humiliation, as well as his subsequent absence these past weeks, felt like a betrayal. 

But fate had forced her hand, and as with other matters of the heart, she had to set aside her own emotions for more practical affairs, such as catching up with casework and long-neglected correspondence. She simply could not afford to reflect upon her feelings (or lack thereof) for her friend, even if he was, she quietly admitted, handsome and of a most masculine mien.  
  
And despite the many cases coming in that kept her occupied, she found she missed William’s presence during her working hours, even if it was to engage in their usual _contretemps_ about her chosen career, or their differing ideas about solving cases. He’d not even stopped round for tea as he was known to do on occasion, which deepened her sense of loss.

Shoving aside her drifting thoughts, Eliza took to tackling one of several piles of mail she’d not yet attended to, reading each letter before organizing them into neat stacks of “immediate business,” “general correspondence,” and “uncertain.” The messages varied from most effusive praise of her “considerable services to the constabulary” and admiration of her as a “most estimable lady sleuth,” to missives so vitriolic and shocking as to be worthy only of the rubbish bin. She’d vowed to reply to all but the most impolite ramblings, even those that were simple notes of congratulations. 

She was sorting through one such pile when a particular envelope caught her eye. It was slightly larger than the others, and its edges were framed with a thick line of black ink. _A mourning letter!_ Without a second thought, and alarmed it might be significant news (surely she’d have heard if it was someone she knew), Eliza pulled out a letter opener belonging to her father, and slit open the envelope’s top.

But when she pulled out the correspondence from within, it wasn’t a mourning letter she found, but a single, plain postcard. And instead of the inky black band typical of bereavement cards, this was bordered with a deep, bordeaux red.

But what chilled her were the eight simple words scripted in a neat, efficient hand:

“ _We’ve been watching you. Henry was the first."_

Breath left Eliza's body as panic coursed through her. Immediately, she tossed down the card and rushed to the open window to steady her breathing. She inhaled the musty London air while looking out over the street below, hoping something, anything, might point her to the card’s sender. But all appeared quite ordinary. The bustle of London life carried on as if no other concern existed. Ship haulers carted crates full of goods to and from the nearby riverdocks. Hackney cabs pulled by gleaming steeds carried men and women across the city, their horses’ hooves creating a soft metallic clop as they passed upon the cobbles. Even the flower seller on the adjacent corner was out, her baskets filled with colorful summer blooms. _Soon_ , Eliza thought, the same corner would be occupied by sellers with hand-carts offering paper cones full of freshly-roasted chestnuts for a penny or two a bag, their shouts of “ _Chesnoots! Chesnoots ‘eeyah!_ ” carrying over the usual cacophony of carriage wheels, church bells and whistles from the cargo ships traveling along the Thames. It reminded her of days spent in her father’s company, perusing old case files, and reading up on the latest investigation techniques. On those days, which often bled into evenings, she and Henry would stop by the chestnut vendors and enjoy a small sachet of the sweet, warm nuts before heading home for dinner.

“ _Worrying won’t solve a thing_ ,” came a familiar voice from behind her.  
  
Eliza turned, and saw the form of her late father Henry, seated in the worn, tufted leather chair near the office fireplace, the same chair where she spent hours reading as a young girl. He appeared relaxed and peaceful, and wore the brown tweed suit from her memory, his bright eyes and gray mustache still apparent on his visage.

“ _Oh, Papa!_ ” Eliza gasped, tears pricking her eyes. It had been just over a quarter year since her father's death, and he still pervaded her thoughts. “ _But where do I start_?”

This wasn't the first time the illusion of her late father had found her in such a state, and he always seemed to know just the right time to appear.

“ _Where you always do, my plum. With the facts_ ,” he asserted. “ _Start at the beginning_.”

His gentle voice gave her comfort, and helped to quell her nerves. He knew how to settle her and help her see things straight; unlike some other detective, who shall remain unnamed, and whose own bullish nature and obstinate disposition vexxed Eliza at every turn and made her blood boil in ways no one had before. That _he_ wished to erase her back into the home with the other ladies of society instead of using her intuition and talents for more practical applications such as detective work was a constant source of irritation between them.

Eliza pushed the thought of _that_ particular detective out of her head before crossing toward her desk where she picked up the offending envelope, examining it once again.   
  
“ _But there’s nothing here to go on_ ” she noted, turning back where the vision of her father was still seated.   
  
“ _There’s always something, when we choose to see it_ ,” Henry offered. His warm smile always provided just the right encouragement, even if his counsel was nothing short of vague.

Looking at the envelope, Eliza detected nothing out of sorts. Her own address was there, but no other markings were present, not even a return. And the envelope was stamped with the same, common postal stamps one might adhere to any ordinary letter. There was no wax seal, and the tip of the envelope’s flap was adorned with a small bouquet of flowers as per the usual style for letters of mourning.

She then picked up the card. Like the envelope, aside from the dark red border, it all looked rather plain. She looked again at the eight words written, “ _We’ve been watching you. Henry was the first."_ Fear ignited anew as Eliza strove to glean the meaning. Who had been watching her, and why? And with Henry now gone, and at the hand of a colleauge, did this mean there were others still there, wanting to kill her?

She read down further and saw it; two sets of initials, added beneath the message. Eliza had missed them when she set down the card in her earlier panic. One set of letters - a distinct _A.O.C._ \- was drafted in the same crisp script as the message, and stood out neatly near the center of the card. Further below, just inside the red border near the right-hand corner, appeared two more letters in a rather unusual scrawl - a T and a V - or so Eliza thought, intertwined in a primitive cursive of sorts. A medieval writing, perhaps? Some odd cursive? Straight lines formed each of the two interlocking initials, but instead of the usual glyphs or serifs of most Roman letters, these looked almost as small triangles. Odd, but perhaps simply the style of this particular writer.

 _“Here, Papa!”_ Eliza exclaimed in excitement. “ _If I can find who these initials belong to…”_

Eliza began to think of ways she could somehow match the initials to the sender. “ _William!”_ she thought, before quickly perishing the idea, not wanting to acknowledge the stab in her heart that came with it. As he’d obviously cut her off, she no longer had access to Scotland Yard, nor their vast collection of criminal files.

Henry’s voice let out a soft chuckle before speaking again, “ _Straight lines do not always lead to the right conclusions, dear girl. Often you must think beyond what is obvious_. _And that goes for your loved ones, too._ ”

“ _B_ _ut…_ ” Eliza turned back toward where her father sat, ready with a reply, only to find the chair empty once again. She wasn’t sure she would ever get used to his loss.  
  
Returning to her task, she picked up the mysterious card and turned it over in her hand, carefully examining its every inch. It was then she noticed it wasn’t any ordinary stationery. While it held no embellishment or monogram, the paper itself was finely crafted; a creamy linen with sharply-hewn edges, and smoothness that could only be produced by one of the more superior paper sellers in the city. Given that realization, it was unlikely the letter was sent by a common street criminal, so any dealings with the Yard would have proved fruitless. But who would have sent such? And why? If she could inquire among the stationers...  
  
Her musings started to follow along that line of thinking when she heard the heavy plod of footsteps coming up the stairs. As the only occupant on the building’s second floor, they could only be coming for her. She had no appointments on the calendar, and In fact, had distinctly cleared her schedule to work on her copious correspondence, piles of which were taking up space not just on her desk, but one of the chairs in front of her desk, as well. And save for a late meeting with Rupert near tea time to go over some more mundane business necessities, she wasn’t expecting anyone.  
  
The footsteps came faster and heavier now. Was it this A.O.C.? Or T.V.? Had they been watching her from down below when she stood at the window? And what did they want with her?

Feeling suddenly afraid and very, _very_ alone, Eliza started toward the door to lock it before quickly realizing she had no such time. With the footsteps drawing nearer, her heart raced faster in her chest, and she took a deep breath to steel herself, then grabbed the letter opener off the desk and brandished it in her hand in preparation to rush the unknown intruder. She wanted to call out, but realized with no other tenants around that any cries would go unheard. 

By then, the footsteps had slowed and stopped on the other side of the door. The door knob jiggled, then started to turn slowly. Eliza’s heart thumped furiously, and she tried to steady her breathing as she watched in horror when the door began to open inward. She grasped the letter opener with all her might, sheltered behind her desk, her hand shaking in terror. She was ready to lunge at the offender would it come to that, but for now could only stand paralyzed as he (or she!) gained entry. _If only I’d procured a gun_ , she thought.

Within seconds, the door opened, and a tall, dark form started to walk inside.  
  
Two voices cut through the silence at the same time.  
  
" _Eliza_!”

“I’M ARMED!” Eliza yelled, at the same time recognizing her own name uttered by a very deep and very irritated voice with a distinctly-familiar Scottish accent. 

“William!” She stayed locked in place, still clutching the letter opener as if it alone could save her from any threat.

“What the bloody hell?” William looked at her half in shock, half in bemusement, before doffing his bowler and tossing it on a nearby table.

“I..” she stammered, not quite certain how to answer. “I thought you were someone else.” She tried to regain the pluck in her voice to hide her panic, but fear adrenaline still coursed through her.

“And who might that be, exactly,” he inquired, his voice not giving away any concern.

“No one of interest,” Eliza retorted, putting her chin up in defense of his inquiry. 

William stepped further in, and looked about the place, noticing the mess and the piles of unattended letters on her desk and nearby on the chair. “Ye want to put that thing away?” he asked, directing his gaze at her extended hand. “And what’ye think you’d do with it anyway. Open someone’s mail?”

“No,” Eliza conceded. “But it might a least cause enough of a hurt that I could run away.” She wsn’t going to let his unexpected appearance shake her resolve.

“Not likely,” William smirked his reply. "I'd imagine it's not more effective than that pocket knife you like to carry."   
  
"You know about that?" _Of course he knew about that_ , she mused, _he knew about everything._

Eliza exhaled then, not realizing she’d been holding her breath, or her defensive stance, all this time. She let go the letter opener, then sat back down in her chair before finally turning her attention toward William. And as he sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk, she finally got a good look at him. Fatigue clouded his fine face, and the green-grey eyes that so often sparkled with mirth or annoyance were now dimmed, and shadowed by dark circles underneath. Even his normally tall stature seemed to sag under some mysterious weight.

As much as a relief as William’s presence was, he suddenly felt like a stranger to Eliza, and she wasn’t sure how to navigate this, or how to hide the sting of his absence. 

“William, this a surprise,” she chirped, hoping her voice didn’t betray the swirl of feelings that suddenly overcame her. She didn’t want to hear his excuses.

“And why would that be?” he huffed. 

“Just that I’ve not heard from you in some time,” Eliza replied with a sing-song tone, trying to deflect any noticeable discomfort.

“Yes, well. I’ve been busy. Working,” he noted bluntly. His eyes cast a steady gaze about the space as if searching for something specific.  
  
“As have I,” Eliza offered, while trying to follow William’s line of sight. The tension in the room grew, and along with it, William’s apparent agitation.

“I can see. You’ve had quite the busy month.” He let out an inhale before standing up and walking the circumference of her office.  
  
She then remembered the card she’d set on the table, the mysterious card with the red border and strange initials. It was there, in plain view, and while at one time she might have asked for his opinion on the matter, she knew that to succeed, she’d have to do this on her own. He’d abandoned _her_ , after all. And what if this is what he was looking for? Why should she offer it up to him? Maybe he needed _her_ help this time. Or, maybe she should show him, and allow him to help her. “ _NO!”_ screamed her inner voice. He’d already shown her he had no want for her, so why should she feel any different? 

As deftly as she could, while he was looking about the old roll-top desk that had belonged to her father, Eliza shuffled the card back into its envelope, and hid it among the other stacks of correspondence and out of William’s view.

“It’s keeping the door open,” she retorted coolly. Feeling oddly discomfited by his presence, she forced herself to sit tall and confident, hoping the facade didn’t disaffirm her quaking nerves beneath. She simply didn’t understand why he was here. “Is there a particular reason for this visit?” she inquired, her voice on the verge of shaking, with annoyance or apprehension, she didn’t know. 

She wanted desperately to know why he’d turned on her that day at Scotland Yard, but was too afraid of his answer. She thought they’d come to an understanding of sorts, especially after dinner, but the way he cut her, and in full view of his Superintendent and work colleagues, made her feel discarded. She’d not even told Ivy about the incident lest Ivy step in and try to go to William herself. Instead, Eliza remained quiet in her disbelief, and turned her attention to her own work, and not spend time dwelling on matters not within her control. And if William had found something else, or some _one_ else (not that she could ever mean anything to him)... She inhaled briefly then shoved any such thoughts from her head, not wishing to dwell any longer on the subject lest her agitation get in the way of her understanding.

She huffed out a sigh and followed William with her eyes as he circled back toward her desk. He eyed the piles of letters before picking one up and reading it aloud. 

_“Dear Ms. Scarlet,”_ he started, his voice giving off that sarcastic tone she often heard when he opined on matters related to her. _  
_ _  
_ _It gives me the greatest pleasure to inform you that at a stated meeting of the First Haven Women’s Society, held on 12 May, our members unanimously extended to you an opportunity to speak before us at our next Society meeting, which will be held upon the 12th June next._ _  
_ _  
_ _We eagerly await your return correspondence within a fortnight as the Society begs your acceptance._

 _Yours respectfully,_ _  
__Harriet Tuxhorn_ _  
__Corresponding Secretary_

“Ah. So y’er speaking now,” William intoned. “Women looking for expertise on matters of detective work from someone who doesn’t hold a badge? Maybe I should offer my services, or am I not popular enough?”

“William, you know that’s not tru...” Eliza started, before William cut her off by picking up another letter, this time sparing no feeling in its reading.

_Dear Ms. Scarlet,_

_It is with alacrity of spirit and admiration upon your personage that we wish to send you hearty felicitations on your most courageous success. Ladies are rarely regarded with any consideration for their intellectual contributions to society, and while detective work is certainly a singular vocation for someone of your rank and …_

“This qualifies as work these days?” he snapped, tossing the letter back down in annoyance.

“I cannot help that people write to me, William.” She hoped this simple explanation would deflect some of the anger directed at her.

“Do you even write back?” he growled. 

“Of course,” Eliza offered. “In most cases. It would be impolite not to.”

“So, you would agree the courtesy of a return letter is not only appropriate but necessary,” he snapped back. His deep Scottish burr dripped with unsteady irritation.

“Most certainly,” she replied, not quite understanding this particular line of inquiry.

He continued rifling through some of the letters on her desk, then tossing each aside, as if seeking something in particular. She snatched them back from him, not wishing to steer attention away from his consideration, and wanting to ensure he didn't find the mystery letter she'd found before his arrival.

“Just was that the purpose of this call? To check on my letter-writing skills? As you can see I have many to attend to. Or was there something particular you wanted to tell me?”

This time Eliza’s annoyance got the better of her. She’d hoped her question would come off as less vitriolic, but alas, the minute it left her mouth she could tell it proved more a nettle than intended.

William’s green-gray eyes darkened and burned at her with an intensity she’d rarely ever seen. He inhaled deeply before leaning forward, placing his upon on her desk so as to nearly hover over her completely.

“Tell you? And what, _exactly_ , would that be? I rather thought you’d have something to tell _me_!” His deep Glaswegian growl all but slurred the angrier he got. 

Out of patience, Eliza snapped back, then stood, facing him directly, her own eyes blazing into his, and her defiant chin jutting toward his own. She was determined to not back down nor cower to his bullying ways.

“What would I have to tell you? I didn’t leave you stranded and alone after being humiliated in front of a crowd! I didn’t turn and walk away after you suffered a set-down at the hands of _my_ superintendent! No thoughts on what you might have to say on _that_ matter!?”

“On that matter!?” William all but chuckled in disdain. “Oh yes,” he seethed, “there is plenty to say on that matter. Higgins was right. You should not be trifling with the affairs of men.”

“Oh! We’re back to men’s affairs, are we? So, I am not allowed to settle myself into a career even though I NEED to do so, but it’s okay for you to waltz in here and interfere with the affairs of a woman? At least you got PAID for your efforts in finding my father’s murderer. What did I get? Nothing! Nothing but satisfaction of putting the case to rest and a pile of letters to answer!”

“And is that not enough?” he steamed.

Her breath caught in her chest as his stare grew even more intense and she was close enough to hear even his own heartbeats, and feel his breath nearing to her own. 

Eliza’s heart hammered in her chest as the last retort hit her intended target. Eye to eye, and nearly chin to chin, she knew the only way to deal with William was to stand her ground and give as good as she got. But his closeness, and the strange elixir of whiskey and leather that seemed to seep from his very presence was enough to make her heady. Her blood roiled, and this strange push and pull she felt when they got this way rushed through her entire body, creating sensations wholly unknown to her.

She wanted to hit him, but it was more than that. It was something more intense; some undefined energy that balled just below her stomach and felt like it may burst. And she wasn’t sure she disliked the feeling entirely.

“Enough!?” she fumed, this time, ignoring the strange feelings. “How could it be? I’m trying to make a name for myself. To make a living!”

William sneered, then bulked up like a bull ready to charge when the click of the office door caused them both to pull away quickly. It must have been Rupert, Eliza thought, there for their scheduled appointment.

Eliza pulled away, still staring at William, with her heart in her throat. It was pounding so hard she was certain it could be heard from across the room. She stood tall then, and turned toward her expected guest before greeting him with as much cheerfulness as she could muster, just as the evening church bells chimed the five o’clock.

William pulled away then, too, a deflated look marking his already-dark visage. Sensing the conversation could go no further, he rubbed his hand over his face before sitting back down in one of the two chairs facing Eliza’s desk. 

“Hello, Rupert,” Eliza chimed merrily while glancing at her desk clock. “I believe you’re right on time.” At that remark, she gave a pointed look toward William, whose own sense of punctuality left much to be desired.

  
“Ah! Hello, Eliza,” Rupert replied, while doffing his own cap and handing it on the rack. “And Inspector! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes,” William grumbled. “So it seems.” 

“Now that you’re here, Rupert, may I offer you some tea?” Eliza could sense already that her outward politeness toward her business partner was going to grate on William, especially after their very recent exchange. 

“Ah, no. In fact," he started, obviously uncertain as to what he walked in on, or how to to navigate the obvious tension that filled the room. "I, I mean to ask you to supper once we’ve settled our business here," he said, glancing William's way. "My mother is most keen to have you join us, and I believe she may have a very special request of you. It’s for that reason she’d like you to join us this evening.”

“Well, then. I am intrigued,” Eliza quipped, offering Rupert a warm smile. “And I would be most delighted to accompany you, once we’ve settled our business, of course.” She looked down toward William then, his ever-present scowl set in stone upon his face, and tried to suss out any thoughts of his. 

“Indeed. We must ensure our little business continues to run smoothly,” Rupert giggled nervously, not quite sure what to think of William’s presence here, nor the apparent argument he had interrupted.

William shrunk in his seat at this display of utter obsequiousness between the two. Their ongoing yammering was a craw to his temple and he needed to find an escape. 

Noticing how much the conversation grated on her intruder, Eliza upped the ante. “Would you care to have a seat, then, Rupert” she inquired, and then gestured to the chair across from her, directly next to where William was sitting, which presently contained one of the many sacks of mail she had received over the past several weeks. “I’m sure William would be happy to move the mail sack for you. I’d meant to attend to these letters earlier, but with new cases coming in, I’m afraid I’ve just not had the time.” 

Eliza knew any reference to time would rankle her old friend, if indeed, he was still her friend. He had a habit of procrastination, and once even her late father had not hesitated to point out before. William started pointedly at Eliza, before mumbling something under his breath.

“What was that?” she inquired, offering him a toothless smile while resting her chin on her hands, her blue eyes twinkling in conquest. 

“Nothing,” he grumbled in reply. Whatever Eliza saw in this muttering namby-pamby, even as a business partner, was beyond William’s comprehension. And if she dared marry him… William best not let his thoughts venture _there_. Begrudgingly, he offered a curt “of course,” before standing to retrieve the mail bag from the adjacent seat. Was the dandy so weak he couldn't pick up the bag of letters himself? Mind you, there did appear to be several dozen, maybe up to one hundred, but the bag couldn’t weigh that much.

Eliza glared at William, a wry grin on her face. Rupert stood closer behind the chair, shifting nervously from foot to foot as William stood to move the letters. But when he lifted the bag out of the seat, the drawstring that held the bag closed caught on a chair arm, causing the bag to fall to the floor, and several dozen of the letters spilled out to the ground, which William was then forced to kneel down and pick up. 

Trying to hide a chuckle, Eliza stood to lean oveer her desk so she could look down over William on the floor, who turned toward her, then losing his balance, fell backward and knocked his head on the chair. “Oh, dear,” Eliza crowed, bemusement shining from her eyes. “I suppose we need to leave the mail sorting to someone else next time.” 

William grumbled a quick “wouldn’t be a bad idea” before righting himself and standing back up to his full height, settling the mail bag into the chair where he had been sitting.

With a deep inhale, he then offered a curt goodbye. “Well, I see you two have business to attend to. And I have to be back at the Yard.”  
  
“Yes, yes. It was most kind of you to come and visit our kindling business,” Rupert offered. “I know we’re just getting started, but our Eliza is going to do a great many things.” 

“Yes, I imagine she has much to offer, such as public speaking and letter writing,” William snarked. It was the most he could come up with under the circumstances. He believed Eliza to possess the intellect and instincts to succeed, but at what cost to her? She'd already lost her father to this profession, and he knew there were others who believed her to be a threat. She didn’t deserve to trudge out a living for herself, especially in a milieu as hostile as his. But what she did deserve, exactly, he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

William picked his bowler off a nearby table where he had set it and made for the office door before turning to offer a goodbye. 

“Eliza,” he sniffed then donned his hat. “Mr. Parker,” he nodded. 

“William…” Eliza started, but her words failed her. She stared at him as he stood in the open doorway, but could offer nothing more. She wanted him to stay. She wanted to finish whatever it was they had started, to clear the air at least, and get the explanation she thought she deserved. But sensing his desire to go, and knowing she had business to attend to, she let his name hang in the air before offering a brief “good night” and sending him on his way.  
  
As his footsteps disappeared back down the hallway and then down the stairs, she felt the same emptiness in her heart as she had on that fateful day outside of Scotland Yard. And it was a feeling she didn’t like one bit. But she had no time to dwell on it, and with the same courage that always saw her rise to the occasion, she turned back to Rupert to settle into business.

_______ 

A few hours later, with their priorities settled, and a several new cases on the books, Rupert said his own goodbye and promised to meet Eliza at her home in one hour hence to accompany her to his mother’s for supper.  
  
Alone in her office once again, Eliza returned to the window and took in the London dusk. The sun was setting to the west, offering a calming glow over the busy streetfront below. She could make out the nearby buildings, their silhouettes creating a pleasing portrait of this city that she loved. And as the streetlamps began to pop on one after another in succession, a soft fog began to roll in, and with it, a cool dampness that seemed to settle Eliza’s heart. It had been a most unexpected day, and one she needed more time to put her thoughts to. She felt a fissure between herself and William, some uncharted chasm that had somehow formed between them, and she wanted to find out what it was. She also needed to follow up on the strange card she’d received, and determine who it was from and what it had meant.  
  
Nearing time to leave, she set about straightening the last of the mail piles and went to turn off her desk lamp when she espied a letter that had been kicked partway under her desk. Likely from earier, she thought. She picked it up and was set to put it into a pile for tomorrow when she noticed her name in a familiar, steady hand.

Her heart pounded in anticipation as she opened the envelope. It couldn’t be, could it? And why leave it for her to find? Why not give it to her earlier?

She opened the letter, her hands shaking with nerves. And there it was; in William’s practical but elegant hand, and written on the same day the day he rebuffed her at Scotland Yard.

_3 May_

_Dear Eliza,_

_I’m sorry for today. It was necessary. Please forgive me, and trust my knowledge on this matter. You must stay away at present. I cannot fill you in, but know there is much to explain and it is most dangerous for you to interfere._

_Please write that you understand. I’ll come see you when I can._

_Yours, W._   
  


_###_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Poor Eliza. She's been through quite a lot. And she and that William fella just keep misunderstanding one another. He seems a right mess, doesn't he?
> 
> A few fun facts:
> 
> Mourning stationery was a real thing in Victorian England, and the black borders on the envelopes were to alert recipients that the letter contained bad news so they would have the opportunity to read the letter in private rather in a sitting room with others. Some of them are quite intricate and lovely. ("You can Google it!") ;-) 
> 
> Also, letter writing during this time was considered an art form. Like, seriously. One was judged on the quality of ones letters. There were entire “How to” books written on the topic, and it was considered in the utmost of taste to have the ability to draft a proper and well-seasoned letter. Every accomplished woman or young man, especially in the middle or upper classes, learned how to do it.
> 
> Harriet Tuxhorn is the name of a real person who happened to reach out to me via today’s form of letter-writing; an email. I'd not corresponded with her before, but she needed assistance with something related to my work, so reached out to my office. I found her name so delightful (and oddly Victorian sounding - if not something that might come from a Harry Potter book), that I noted it in my "list of potential character names" (yes, I have one!), so included it in my fic. 
> 
> Also, thank you to our own Mr. Martin, whom via the wonders of social media, cleared up any debate about his eye color. I elected not to use "murky browny greeny mess" as he so described, so just used green-gray instead, which I believe is most apt.
> 
> There's lots stirring for Chapter 2 already, including a peek at this “special invitation” Mrs. Parker wants to set up. And just who are AOC and TV? 
> 
> One last item, if you’re a fan of the show and want to dig into some color and costume theory, please see my posts here on AOOO about it. You can go to my profile link and look under the work entitled "Costume and Color Theory." OR, you can head to the Scarleteers page on Facebook where you can read the posts there - complete with photos.
> 
> Happy reading, and cheers until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Welp! There ‘tis. What do ye think? What did William find when he went upstairs? What words did he and Eliza have? What of the maid? What did Ivy say when she came home the next morning? We’ll get to all that in a little bit, after I rewind and retrace our steps to get us to where we are now. 
> 
> In the meantime, please do send me some encouragement, and I’ll keep plugging away. 
> 
> * As to the word bumblerump, it is a neologism (completely made-up word), but a derivative of some very similar slangy epithets used during the Victorian era. I made it up to mean “one who talks out of his ass,” and I feel it describes this doctor and his cronies very well, don’t you? 
> 
> Blab, on the other hand, is a real Victorian slang word meaning “a prating stupid fellow, a fool.” 
> 
> Cheers! 
> 
> ~ PT33


End file.
